19:12
by ronnocc
Summary: Eight women abducted from four states in 72 hours. Nothing to go off of except a crude video feed and ill-placed suspicion from locals. While the rest of the BAU struggles to solve the case, Dr. Spencer Reid finds a way into the mind of one of the victims who may be the team's only hope. [SpencerXOFC] (AU. Set after 2.18 "Jones." M for heavy drug use, violence, explicit sex scenes)
1. Caged

A/N: AU. Set after "Jones" (season 2, episode 18). No affiliation with _Criminal Minds_, own nothing except the original characters.

* * *

**"We're all born mad. Some remain so." - Samuel Beckett**

* * *

The first thing she noticed was how her sweat clung to her clothing. She hadn't sweated like this in years.

She did not know where she was but she did have an idea of how long she had been there. Despite the darkness' best efforts to disguise the time of day, she had been adamant about keeping time since her capture. Counting silently to herself, she tapped her finger against her thigh. _Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Three hundred and sixty. _

Three-hundred and sixty minutes. Six hours. She had been finishing her afternoon jog and was rounding Ravanel Street, a corner she had been meeting everyday between 3:15 and 3:20, when her captor tackled her to the ground. Within seconds she had a needle in her arm and could feel her body being contorted to fit into the trunk of a car. The last thing she saw after being pulled out of the trunk was sunrise, so six o'clock was her best guess for when she was put in the cage. That meant it was around midnight now.

Whoever had nabbed her had brought a blanket to her as soon as she was locked into the six-foot by six-foot metal cage, shoving it through a rectangular cut out on the door and letting it fall softly against the ground. Initially she convinced herself she was just in jail again; the cell was identical to the ones she had been put in before. It wasn't until her vision started coming back completely that she noticed something entirely un-jail-like: a wall of gray insulation built out about two feet from the perimeter, surrounding the cell. But something wasn't right about it.

She stood and approached the bars, cautiously wrapping her hands around them. Attempting to touch the wall, she reached her hand as far between the bars as she could. In the dim light she could see the dimpled foam that surrounded her cell, just out of her reach.

But the floor...the floor was concrete. And it didn't stop at the edge of the foamed walls. _Were the walls fake?_

Her eyes followed the edge of the wall to the ceiling, where she noticed that the foam-covered wall extended above her cell, too. In the right corner, a small red light stared at her. A camera. Whoever it was...they were watching.

Suddenly, the sound of creaking levers and chains flooded her ears. It was a shock to her previously muffled hearing, and her hands flew up to her ears to cover them. She forced herself to remain calm as the grey walls once surrounding the perimeter of her cell began to rise. More light began to pour in and she walked to the back of her cell, cautious and deliberate.

"Flamma!" She heard a high-pitched voice call out. The shrillness of the voice sounded like a bad version of the Joker from an 80's Batman cartoon. It was too high to be a man's voice, but so shrill, so repulsive that it gave her goose bumps. "I shall call you _Flamma_ because you were the first to wake. Do you know what Flamma means?"

"My name is not Flamma," she spat at the hooded figure approaching her cell.

"Tsk, tsk, Flamma. Don't bite the hand that feeds you. Literally," the figure teased her, softly shaking a tray full of food in her face. "Are you hungry? You need to eat." The figure set the tray halfway through the cut in the door, waiting for her to take it. "Come on. You'll need your strength."

"What for?" Gravel ground in her throat as she tried to keep herself from vomiting.

"Well, if you would come to the front of your room and look around, _Flamma_, you would see!"

She stood adamantly in place.

"Come on, come on, I'm not going to hurt you. And you _are_ hungry, aren't you?"

She relinquished her hands from her ears, only just realizing she still had them muffled. Cautiously she approached the door, the cold concrete chilling her bones from feet to head.

"There we go. That's good. See, you can see everyone from here."

She gently took the tray in her hands. Only then did her captor step back and allow her to see what lay in front of her: seven other cages containing seven other unconscious women, all arranged in a circle around a large, open area. An arena, she quickly realized. Soundproofed walls suspended above each of the cages on a pulley system.

"See? I'm really not going to hurt you," the voice assured her. And although she could not see who it was, she could hear the smirk in their voice. "You're going to hurt each other. Right here! In my gladiator pit."

The metal tray clattered against the ground, peas rolling across the floor.

"First fight is at dawn. Eat up."


	2. Linked

**"The condition of man...is a condition of war of every one against every one." - Thomas Hobbes**

* * *

Reid was having a hard time focusing. Things had gotten somewhat easier since his return from New Orleans, but sometimes the flashbacks were still too much. He had been especially plagued by them this morning as the winter beckoned the leaves to fall from the trees to the earth. The crunch of leaves under his weight was something he had once loved so much; now it haunted the pits of his stomach. He was grateful to be inside, tucked safely into the metal machinery of the elevator. He reached into his satchel to fetch his ID, but his fingers lazily groped two small glass bottles_—__Dilaudid_.

He didn't realize he still had them on him.

Suddenly, the elevator communicated to him that it had reached his floor, urging him out with a loud _bing!_ that startled him. He jerked his hands out of his satchel and rubbed them together awkwardly. He'd need to get rid of those. Eventually.

"Hey there, pretty boy," Morgan smirked, winking at him as he walked to his desk. "How'd you enjoy your 36 hours of freedom?"

"Actually I spent most of it comparing an early English translation of _Faust_ to the original German text..." Reid muttered his answer to himself, removing a folder of paperwork from his satchel and straightening his desk.

"Of course you did," Morgan nodded before shaking his head. "Why do I even bother..."

"You know, _Faust _is actually a really appropriate text for our jobs. Faust himself is_—_"

"Morgan. Reid," Hotch's stone-cold voice called out to them, stern and serious. Reid's back instinctively straightened. The unit chief's unblinking brown eyes made contact with each of the men before he tilted his head toward the conference room, silently ordering them to their places.

"Back to the grind," Morgan patted Reid on the shoulder, giving him a gentle shove.

They filed into the conference room, taking their usual seats around the table. Reid noticed Prentiss looked more tired than usual. Perhaps she had finally gotten her first real taste of the exhaustion that working for the BAU happily provided, he thought. For a moment, Reid felt a twinge of guilt. If he had made it on that plane to Galveston, he probably could have taken some of the work load and spared her some energy.

He forced himself to shake his head and clear away those thoughts. _Illogical to dwell on events that have already taken place._ His eyes drifted to his mentor, desperate for a distraction. Gideon sat back in his seat, eyes focused intently on the table as he tapped his tepee-shaped fingers against his chin. There was something so deliberate, so concise about Gideon's demeanor that Reid often pictured him solving cases before they even arrived at JJ's desk. He was an encyclopedia for human emotion, a deceptively empathetic man whose ambition saved countless lives while destroying his own soul. Reid had never respected someone so much.

JJ passed out the confidential case files as she spoke. "We've got two kidnappings that North Carolina and Tennessee officials suspect are linked together."

"Suspect?" Morgan asked, skimming the files.

"Tilda Westchester was reported missing Sunday afternoon when she didn't show up to a family dinner in Raleigh, North Carolina. The detective that was assigned to her case contacted us," JJ motioned to the screen behind her, where the driver's license photo of a young, golden skinned woman flashed on the screen. She had a bright smile and warm, chocolate eyes that radiated peace, even on a television screen.

"At first, Raleigh PD thought it was an isolated kidnapping case..."

Hotch narrowed his eyes at the screen. "Until?"

"Until the lead detective, Detective Atwell, received a phone call from his brother-in-law in Tennessee informing him that his sister, Diyah Greene, had been missing since 8:30 Sunday morning," JJ brought up another picture of a young woman, this one with cocoa skin, plump lips and long, natural hair.

Morgan raised his eyebrows and let out a soft whistle. "Damn."

"Two victims in two different states? This seems more like a coincidence and less like a case for the BAU..." Prentiss trailed off, looking around the table to gauge her colleagues' reactions.

"No such thing as a coincidence," Gideon muttered, his eyes still fixed on the table. Prentiss noticeably shrank back in her seat.

"Well, that's what I thought, too," JJ said, motioning towards Emily. Reid appreciated her attempt to indirectly comfort Prentiss' bruised ego, "until Detective Atwell called me back to report a third missing woman, another from North Carolina. This one from Charlotte," She pulled up yet another picture, this time of a young, tan female with a shaved head and adventurous blue eyes. "Niema Keppler. Last seen Friday night."

"Three women in three days? It may be possible each state has its own kidnapper, but it seems unlikely that this is all the work of one unsub, doesn't it?" Reid asked, looking at the women. He searched for some sort of linking factor, but wasn't able to find anything by looking at them. His eyes shifted back to Gideon, whose demeanor had changed. He was no longer considering what had been said. He was solving. Reid immediately turned his attention to the case files. _There must be something._

Prentiss, ever determined, chimed back in, "Maybe a system of kidnappers? Some sickos that coordinated a kidnapping spree?"

"Is there anything actually linking these women together, JJ?" Gideon finally looked up from the table, focusing his eyes directly on the blonde.

"I've got Garcia checking it now, sir."

"Speak of me and I shall appear!" Garcia announced, entering the room almost immediately. She toted her laptop in one hand and a large cup of coffee in the other. "Much like Christina Aguilera, I am a genie in a bottle. Rub me the right way and-"

"What have you got for us, Garcia?"

Penelope swallowed hard and sat down. Gideon always made her so nervous. "I found a link between two of our victims. First, Diyah Green. Twenty-eight, married for a year and a half, husband says she went out on her normal run Sunday morning and never came back. She was a ballerina until a bad ankle injury put a cap on her career, she now teaches a ballet-infused fitness class at a local gym in Knoxville. Our second victim, Tilda Westchester, is twenty-two, fresh out of college. Not married, although she does have a very cute English setter named Beatrice that she blogs about regularly. Like the first victim, Tilda had a major injury set her back in her gymnastics career. She now coaches a team at the Kids Gymnastics Academy in Raleigh. Last seen leaving the gym where she coaches around 4 PM."

"And what about the third victim?" Hotch prodded.

"Well, she's the only one I can't seem to fit in. Niema Keppler, nineteen, was reported missing when she didn't show up to one of her classes at UNC Charlotte. A friend went to her dorm to drop off notes and found her room unlocked, car in the parking lot, cell phone sitting on her desk with her wallet and keys. Last time anyone saw her was around 5 o'clock Friday evening."

"So, what? No career-ending injury for her?" Morgan asked, shaking his head gently as he raised his hands up in an inquisitive gesture.

"No," Garcia sighed, "it doesn't appear so. Other than a gym membership, she has no record of making a career out of_—_"

Reid's head popped up. Maybe the _injury_ wasn't what connected them. "What did she study?"

"Huh?" Garcia looked at him blankly.

"At school, what was she studying?"

"Oh, uh, give me one second..." Garcia banged her fingers ferociously against the keyboard, licking her lips as she looked from left to right. "Oh, here it is, ah_—_oh," her mouth fell open a bit before she swallowed hard again. "She just declared her major in kinesiology."

"Three young, fit women who were grabbed in broad daylight and should have been able to defend themselves?" Prentiss asked, dismayed. "That doesn't make sense."

"Looks like we've got a case." The words drifted from Gideon's mouth forebodingly, and Reid found himself once again staring at the pictures of strangers, trying to memorize what they looked like alive before the images of their deceased bodies burned into his memory.


	3. Informed

"**The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness." - Joseph Conrad**

* * *

Violet forced herself to eat the dry chicken and peas provided to her by her captor. Her stomach had been turning all night, making it impossible to sleep, and her eyelids were tugging heavily over her eyes. The knot in her arm from where her kidnapper jammed the needle into her flesh stared back at her, mocking her with the memory of the sickly sweet concoction that had her peacefully nodding in and out of consciousness in the trunk of a car. _Of all the things that motherfucker could have used..._

The sweat pouring from her skin and pooling in puddles around her on the floor confirmed her suspicions about what had been used to knock her into a state of compliance. She knew exactly what the detox from that needle would look like_—_fever, uncontrollable sweating, insomnia, diarrhea. Her rage manifested as a pit of acid in her stomach and she felt absolutely carnal at the knowledge that her body was about to betray her. A growl escaped from the back of her throat and she had to bite her own hand to satisfy her brute desire to tear flesh from bone. A single drop of blood ran down the side of her thumb and joined her sweat on the floor.

The sound of the exterior cage walls being raised jolted her to the present and reminded her that she had a lot more at stake than withdrawal symptoms. Sure, she was about to be sick, but the paramount issue was that she had been _kidnapped._

"Warriors! Step forward to your cages, please!" That god-awful shriek of a voice hurdled its way through the room, tearing into Violet's eardrums. She forced her cramping muscles to stretch as she stood, gritting her teeth as she approached the front of her cage.

From here, she could see everything. The sheer size of the room they were kept in was overwhelming. Her best guess was that they were in an abandoned warehouse, or maybe an old, refitted basketball gym. All eight cages were arranged in a circle around the center of the room, creating an arena. A set of stairs led down from a balcony level directly to the top of the circle. At the top of the stairs sat a wooden chair, and behind the chair, a singular door: their one and only way out of the room. Violet also noticed all of the chains atop their soundproof coverings connected to one larger chained controlled by a pulley system next to the door. How convenient.

"What the FUCK do you want from us!?" A bald young woman screamed at the top of her lungs, collapsing in sobs. Many of the other women were crying, too, but they seemed to be better at holding their composure.

"Please," a young African-American woman in the cell on Violet's left pleaded, tiredly leaning her head against the bars of her cage, "let us go."

Violet looked around at the other women. The first time her captor had shown them to her, they were still passed out from the drugs; now each of them stood at the front of their cages, assessing their mutual situation. Some of the women, like the bald girl, were already falling apart. Others, Violet noticed, were unwavering in their determination to survive.

By far the most levelheaded in the room was a short but very muscular Chinese woman who stood at the front of her cage across from Violet, feet shoulder width apart, arms crossed. She eyed the other women like a lioness on the hunt.

"I am pleased to announce that there is, in fact, a way for you all to make it out of here alive! It will just require some strength."

The Chinese woman tilted her head up at him. "Tell us what we have to do."

"Ah, so eager to push through!" Their kidnapper responded happily. "And that is _exactly_ why I gave you the name Priscus."

She narrowed her eyes. "Tell. Us."

"These are the conditions of your enslavement," their captor descended the stairs, dragging a long black baton behind him. Or was it a her? Violet couldn't tell. He was an average height, somewhere between 5'8 and 5'10, and was an average build. He wore long black plants and a long-sleeve black turtleneck with black leather gloves and a full black ski mask to match. Whoever it was, they were truly unremarkable.

As he walked past the girls' cages, he ran his baton across the metal poles, causing the bald girl to sob even harder at the loud sound of clattering metal. "Every other day, starting at sunrise, you will fight each other, one after another after another. If one of you successfully beats every single other competitor consecutively, you get to make a choice-"

"I'm not laying a hand on any of these women," A caramel skinned girl with long, dark dreadlocks stated matter-of-factly, refusing to look at him. She was in the cell to Violet's right.

He stopped in front of her cage and whispered just loud enough for Violet to hear, "Then you will never see outside this room again."

Violet's tumultuous green eyes locked with her neighbor's startling gray eyes and Violet felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She nodded at the woman in respect. After a moment, the woman nodded back.

"What's the choice?" A Latino woman with jet-black hair and matching eyes whispered meekly, hesitant and nervous for the answer. Violet turned her attention from her neighbor to the captor.

She swore she could feel him smirk again. "You can either choose to go back to your cage and fall asleep, where you will be allowed one rest day before we begin the matches all over again. Or," he stood now at the base of the stairs, facing all of them, "you can choose to fight me."

"And what's to stop me from killing you with my bare hands and running out that door up there?" The words seemed to tumble out of Violet's mouth, crude and unsolicited.

The captor let out of a cruel, high-pitched laugh and approached her cell, taking pleasure in her ignorance. "Well, you could do that, I guess. But you will all be pleased to know that the door located above you, which is the the _only_ way out of this room, by the way, is password protected. If you kill me..." he dramatically crossed to the center of the arena and made a sweeping motion, gesturing to all the women, "you will all rot in these cages until you die of starvation."

The Chinese woman spoke again, moving her hands to her hips. An aggressive stance. Violet appreciated the notion. "If we choose to fight you? And we win?"

"If you win, I let you go."

"All of us?" The bald girl looked up hopefully as she spoke.

"No, my silly, silly Spiculus," he giggled, waving his baton at her. "Only the one that beats me gets released."

"And if we lose?" Violet called out again, clutching the bars in her hands. She was ready to rip them apart and fight her way out right then and there.

"Well, there's no real _losing, _per se. If you fight me, you will either win the fight...or I will kill you."

And suddenly her stomach dropped as she realized how bloody the last days of her life were going to be.


	4. Discovered

**"Human nature is evil, and goodness is caused by intentional activity." Xun Zi**

* * *

Reid sleepily rubbed at his eyes. Hotch wanted them on the tarmac at 6 AM that dreary December morning, meaning he only had enough time to leave their briefing the day before and take care of a few necessities: he ran home, washed his clothes, showered, ate a Hot pocket, and then stared at his ceiling for four hours, attempting to fall asleep. Knowing those bottles of Dilaudid were in his bag had once been so comforting; now, it made it impossible for him to sleep.

He had only actually used a handful of times since returning from Georgia, reserving it mostly for breaks between cases and nights of haunting insomnia. There were several needle exchanges in the DC area, but he trekked all the way across the city to get as far away from the bureau as possible. Although Reid had always been positive that he would never find himself going to a clinic for drug paraphernalia, the twinge of guilt in his stomach didn't stop him from waiting patiently in line to get what he needed. The first time he put a needle in his own arm was terrifying. Every time after that was child's play.

Reid had to shake his head to push the thoughts about Dilaudid out of his mind. That was his only real concern with using_—_that thoughts about the drug would creep into his head while he was working. He had to keep a clear mind to work at the BAU, but he especially had to keep a clear mind to _hide his addiction _from the BAU. He stepped off the metro and checked his watch. 5:45. Maybe he had enough time to grab another coffee? He had emptied his entire supply of sugar into his coffee that Tuesday morning, and although he could feel his blood sugar rising rapidly, his eyelids simply could not. Maybe another coffee would help wake him up_—_and keep his mind off the drugs. Another addiction, sure, but at least a socially acceptable one.

He ran up the escalator stairs as best he could, leather satchel and go-bag in hand. As soon as he was above ground, his phone began buzzing with messages before immediately ringing. Hotch already?

"Hey, Hotch, I'm uhm, I just got off_—_"

The unit chief interrupted him immediately, "I need you in now, Reid. As fast as you can get here."

That statement alone was enough to jolt Reid awake, "S-sure thing. Be there in five."

His stomach dropped. Did Hotch know? Was he being brought in early to discuss it? Was he about to get fired? Would they search his bag and find the two bottles of Dilaudid tucked into a deep pocket? _Or maybe this is just about the case_.

Forgoing the coffee and needing an answer, Reid ran to the FBI headquarters.

* * *

Reid sat at the round table with a very tense Hotch and an ever-calm Gideon. His heart began to race. There's only one reason Gideon and Hotch would meet with him alone.

He swallowed hard and gathered his courage, "Hotch?" His unit chief's dark and intense eyes snapped to him and he felt all the courage he had mustered run away like a mouse cornered by an alley cat. He looked away shamefully before stuttering, "I-I just_—_"

"Things got worse," JJ tossed open the door, Morgan, Prentiss, and Garcia following closely behind her.

_Oh, thank God._ Reid rubbed his forehead and eyes again, trying to hide how hard it was for him to catch his breath. He looked away and took a deep breath, slowing down his heart rate. _Not today_.

Gideon and Hotch exchanged skeptical glances, and Gideon's eyes travelled lazily from Hotch to Reid. _He knows. _Finally, his eyes found JJ as he asked, "How much worse?"

"I got a phone call last evening from Detective Atwell. Cops working on his sister's case in Tennessee said they have reason to believe that a woman who was reported missing Friday evening was kidnapped by the same unsub."

"Another? We're at four now?" Derek shook his head. "This unsub is moving faster than we can keep up with."

"Did she have some sort of fitness-related job?" Prentiss asked. "That's the only linking factor between the women that we've got so far."

"I'm still waiting for local police to send me the information," JJ replied, shaking her head.

Hotch stood, obviously annoyed. That was the best thing about Hotch, Reid decided. When things started to go wrong, Hotch didn't want to think, he wanted to act, and he wanted to act _decisively_. "We need to get ahead of him before we have any more missing women on our plate. Garcia, I want all missing persons reports filed for women between the ages of 18 and 30 made in the last 72 hours."

"That's going to be a lot of numbers, sir," Garcia warned him, looking at him hesitantly.

"We've got to find a way to narrow it down..." Emily trailed off, reviewing the reports.

Gideon also stood and turned his back to the team, pacing. "Try any missing persons reports filed in the past 72 hours and cross reference it with women who work in some sort of fitness profession."

"What if this new woman didn't have a fitness related job?" JJ asked.

Gideon turned around, "Then it wasn't our guy. These women have no other connection_—_different races, different ages, height, weight, body type, hair color_—_the only thing they have in common is that they work in fitness."

The room remained silent. Gideon noticed Garcia sitting at the table, fingers posed over the keys, her eyes staring at him intently, waiting for someone to give her a final command. "Go," he prodded her with a nod.

Her fingers hit the keys rapidly. "Women...ages 18 to 30..." she mumbled to herself, her eyes squinted as the typed, "jobs in fitness, been reported missing in the last seventy two hours...I've got fifty-six women."

"Narrow it down to the southeastern United States," Reid added, thinking. He could see a map of the United States in his head, and he drew imaginary lines from Knoxville to Charlotte to Raleigh. It was a lot of ground to cover with three victims in his possession. He couldn't live too far from either of those places. "If we know he's taken twice from Tennessee and twice from North Carolina, he has to be localized to one of those areas."

"And if we know someone was taken Friday, let's make it seventy-two hours beginning Friday. Not counting back from today," Prentiss added. Hotch nodded at her idea in approval.

"Okay, okay, okay...give me one second...I've got..." Garica looked up from her computer, horror written all over her face, "I've got eight women who match that criteria, sir."

"North Carolina and Tennessee?" Reid asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

"North Carolina, Tennessee, Virginia, and South Carolina. Earliest dating back to Friday afternoon. Latest was filed...last night at 8 PM."

"Eight women in three days?" Morgan's eyes found his unit chief. "Hotch, we got a problem. This guy is not going to stop."

Hotch held his hand up, gently silencing Morgan while he kept his eyes on Garcia. "Have any bodies been found?"

She typed before breathing out a sigh of relief, "No sir."

"Then we still have time to find them. Garcia, I want all the information on these women put in a report and sitting on the desk in the conference room in an hour. I want you making this missing persons search with this criteria every half hour until we find this unsub."

Garcia nodded and scurried out of the room.

"JJ, contact all of the police headquarters in these states and tell them we've got a serial inter-state kidnapper."

"Yes sir," JJ grabbed her stack of case files and immediately pulled out a cellphone. Reid could hear her as she walked out, "Hi, my name is Jennifer Jareau, I'm with the FBI..."

"Reid, help Gideon put together a composite of the geography_—_anything you can tell me that you think will be of use, including where this guy is based."

Reid gathered his things and Gideon motioned for the young doctor to follow him to his office. Reid found himself swallowing hard again. Something about the way Gideon was looking at him wasn't normal...almost like...well, almost like Gideon was profiling him. _Remain calm_, Reid told himself, avoiding eye contact with Gideon, _and focus on the case_.

Hotch stopped the two from walking out as he addressed the final two agents, "Morgan and Prentiss and I will start processing the information on the women we already know have been kidnapped, see if there is anything else connecting these women." Finally, Hotch looked each one of his team members in the eye, "I want us in this room in an hour ready for to brief and on that plane with a plan no later than 3 PM. Is that clear?"

A successive chorus of "Yes, sir," echoed through the room. Reid scratched the back of his neck as he tried to fight the overwhelming sense of impending doom. _No, _he demanded of himself, _do not assume the worst. _He knew he had to hope for the best for these women. After all, sometimes it was _only _the hope of the BAU that made the difference between asking a family to ID remains and returning a person to their rightful home.


	5. Taught

**"Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival." - C.S. Lewis**

* * *

Fighting.

Violet never realized until that moment, sitting in her cell, staring at the sand-covered concrete floor ahead of her, that fighting had been integrated so completely into her life. It was something she had done for so long, in so many various forms, and now it might be the thing that killed her.

She thought back to the long days in her mother's muggy ballet studio when all of her friends would look at her with pity as her mom instructed, "Thank you, class. Everyone may leave except for Violet." Six days a week her mother would keep her in that ballet studio, forcing her to fight through bleeding toes, sore muscles, and resentment for an extra two hours a day. Her dear, sweet mother_—_so kind, yet so determined. Most people thought having a former prima ballerina as a mother and ballet teacher would be a blessing, but for most of Violet's life, it was a nightmare. Violet would be the best, her mother swore, and so she worked her daughter's mind and body to the point of exhaustion. There were some days that Violet would cry silently throughout the extra two hours, tears running down her cheeks and on to her tutu as she lifted her legs and extended her arms, her muscles quivering every moment. It didn't matter how long or how hard she trained_—_she wasn't the best. Her mother attributed it to how little rest her body was getting but assured her that, in time, it would all catch up and she would become a prima ballerina, too. Even at six, Violet knew that was a lie. It wasn't that she was physically incapable_—_it was that she didn't love ballet. She felt a sharp pang in her chest thinking about it. _Maybe if she had tried harder, complained less..._

Well...maybe she wouldn't have upset her mother so much that she took her eyes off the road that day to yell at her on the way back from practice. Maybe she'd still be alive.

Violet's lungs collapsed as she pushed out a hard sigh. She couldn't allow herself to get melancholic. She had to hold on to the anger burning inside of her. There was a good chance that it was the only thing that was going to get her out of there.

The girls had been waiting for a couple of hours. Although their captor had claimed they would fight at sunrise, Violet was sure it was much later than that...right? It had to be. Admittedly she had lost count of the minutes she had been in there, and the withdrawal made her feel weak and groggy, and being locked in a cell made time creep by...but there was no way that he had only been gone for less than an hour.

He had left their exterior cage walls up, but the girls were terrified to speak to one another. The bald girl sobbed softly from her cage, hugging her knees. A girl with fire engine red hair paced back and forth, the soft patter of her bare feet against the concrete creating a rhythm that lulled Violet's eyes closed.

Just as she felt some inner peace, a commotion started at the bottom of her throat. She felt vomiting rising in her esophagus like a hand punching its way out of her stomach and through her mouth. Thank god she had lay down next to the bedpan provided for her by her captor.

A few of the girls stared at her as she crawled on her hands and knees to the bowl of water sitting in the far right cell of her corner. She was sure they thought she was vomiting out of fear or anxiety. _Good_, she thought to herself, keeping her head down. _That's exactly what I want you to think._

She tipped the water bowl to her lips and gulped. The sound of her throat squeezing the water down echoed through the room. As far as withdrawals were concerned, this was definitely much better than all the others before it. She had been able to control the vomiting for the most part and had yet to be confronted with the usually-promised explosive diarrhea. But how in the hell could she fight like this? Muscles trembling, sweat pouring, heart pounding? She'd have to come up with a plan, something that_—_

The sound of a finger snapping to her right caught her attention. Her head popped up and she once again found herself staring at a set of cold, gray eyes. She had never really gotten a good look at anyone until this moment. Her neighbor stood in her cage, lean muscle lining her frame. She had long black dreads and her almond shaped eyes sat atop of perfectly placed cheekbones. For a moment, Violet found herself taken aback by the breathtaking beauty of her neighbor_—_even after being held captive.

The girl sat down quickly and faced Violet, putting them at the same eye level. She delicately placed her hands in her lap and, using her left hand to cover her right, began to slowly and rhythmically change the shape of her hand. Violet tilted her head to the side, confused. What was she doing? She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head gently, communicating that she didn't understand. Her neighbor's face didn't even flinch as she began the pattern again. This time, though, she softly mouthed words.

"A...B...C...D..."

Sign language. Violet's eyes widened and she nodded quickly before following the girl's hand movements. They went through the series what felt like a dozen times before her neighbor finally stopped.

"I...A...M...J...O...H...A...N...N...A," the girl signed. Violet's mind, still slow and groggy from the withdrawal, took a little longer than anticipated to put all the letters together. She saw, for a brief moment, a flash of heartbreak and frustration in Johanna's eyes at the idea that Violet had not caught on. Johanna began to sign the sentence again when Violet interrupted her.

"I...A...M...V...I...O...L...E...T."

Johanna's mouth pulled at the corners. Violet lifted her hand higher to sign, but Johanna quickly shook her head. She eyed the corners of their cells before signing, "C...A...M...E...R...A."

Between the news of the fight and the onset of her withdrawal symptoms, Violet had forgotten all about the camera. She glanced out of the corner of her eye and saw the red flashing light, indicating it was recording. Bringing her attention back to Johanna, she signed, "H...E...I...S...W...A...T...C...H...I...N...G."

Johanna nodded

"B...U...T...I...H...A...V_—_"

The sound of a metal door swinging open boomed throughout the room. The bald girl sobbed even louder and most of the prisoners sprung to their feet. Violet and Johanna remained exactly as they were, unflinching. Violet smirked. That was a good sign.

"Ladies, I apologize for the delay! I ran into a few...difficulties. But never fear! They have been resolved," their captor stood at the top of the stairs, his voice filling the room. "Now...who's ready to fight?"

* * *

A/N: Sorry about the delay. Thanks for all the follows/favorites/reviews. It is greatly appreciated. I'd love to know what you all think so far.


	6. Punished

**"Secrecy, once accepted, becomes an addiction." - Edward Teller**

* * *

Reid joined his teammates in the conference room fifty-seven minutes later. Working with Gideon had made sweat accumulate around his hairline and he nonchalantly brushed it away, careful not to bring attention to himself. For the entire hour they were together, Gideon's stare bore into him. Reid felt exhausted from trying to keep up appearances.

The file sitting in front of him on the desk was now much thicker. Garcia chewed on the end of a pen nervously while the rest of the team sat with a quiet but heavy calmness. Five news pictures joined the three already on the screen. JJ let out a small sigh as she opened the file in front of her. _Poor JJ_, Reid found himself weighed down with pity. _If anyone lets this job get to them, it's her._

"Let's go, we're wasting time," Hotch nodded at her, urging her to begin.

JJ pointed the remote at the computer screen, enlarging a picture of a stern, cocoa skinned girl with long, black dreads and large, almond shaped eyes, "Johanna Almeida, 27, was reported missing by her girlfriend from Bristol, Virginia on Friday afternoon when she didn't return from a hot yoga class she taught that morning. She's been a yoga instructor for eight years."

Immediately, Reid imagined a map of the southeastern United States. He plotted Bristol on it and continued to listen closely. JJ clicked the remote, enlarging a picture of a thin, fair skinned girl with fire engine red hair and a button nose, "Simone Pack, 25, reported missing by her boss from Greenville, South Carolina on Saturday morning when she failed to show up for a private training session with a client. Personal trainer."

Reid added Greenville to his mind map. _Click_. Now, the picture of the bald girl they had already seen took up the screen. "Niema Keppler, reported missing by campus police from Charlotte, North Carolina on Saturday night," _click_, and the next picture: a stunning Hispanic woman with a square jaw and beautiful cheek bones, "Nashani Galavez, 30, reported missing from Columbia, South Carolina by her boyfriend on Sunday morning when she missed her bike club's morning ride. Spin instructor for six years."

The young doctor quickly added Charlotte and Columbia to his map. All of these cities were within driving distance of one another, but there had to be some central point...

_Click_. The beautiful picture of one of the victims they had already seen flashed before his eyes. Reid felt a swell of shame in his stomach_—_he couldn't remember her name.

"Diyah Green," JJ jogged his memory, "28, missing from Knoxville since Sunday morning, runs a ballet fitness studio."

The tension in the room took over like thick smog infecting all the agents' lungs. Reid could feel the minutes ticking by; each one felt like an opportunity slipping away. Morgan sat, staring hard at the pictures, while Prentiss seemed unable to bring herself to look at the women.

_Click_. A picture of an Arabic woman with wild eyes and plump lips. "Tilda Westchester, 26, reported missing by her parents from Raleigh, North Carolina on Sunday when she never came back from a gymnastics lesson. She runs and teaches at a gymnastics center..." _click_, a picture of a determined, calm Chinese women with a polite smile tugging at the corners of her lips, "Yue Liu-Hayes, 29, reported missing from Johnson City Monday afternoon. Kick boxer."

"God..." Gideon whispered, rubbing his face. Reid looked around and saw the fear and concern written all over his colleagues' faces. He knew exactly what they were all thinking: abductions from different states, different types, no bodies...they were never going to find these women. At least, not alive.

"Go on," Hotch got them back on track.

Finally, JJ clicked to the last picture: a young woman with full lips, chocolate brown hair, and unsettling green eyes. Her stare was dull compared to the other women's; something had worn away inside of her, robbed her of the youth and innocence the other women had managed to hold on to. Reid found his eyes inextricably attached to the girl's. A familiarity ached deeply inside of his chest.

Something in her eyes...that look of deep-seated pain, of a loss of control, of a desperate desire to overcome..._something_.

"Violet Knox," JJ interrupted his thoughts, "24, reported missing from Fredericksburg last night at 8 PM, although..."

"Although what?" Morgan asked, shifting in his seat. He was clearly intrigued by this young woman.

JJ took a deep breath. "We have reason to suspect that she could be a potential unsub."

"Why?" Gideon asked, folding his fingers together and resting his chin contemplatively on them.

"All of the other women come from middle to upper class families, no real tragedies, no traumas. They're all married or in committed relationships and have no criminal record. Violet Knox, on the other hand, has been arrested three times, witnessed the death of her mother when she was a child, and was granted custody of her 17 year old brother two years ago when her father died of pancreatic cancer."

"Jesus," Prentiss breathed out, grimacing. "Talk about trauma..."

"That's a lot to take in, but as far as we know, there's been no stressor in the past week?" Morgan looked from JJ to Garcia.

"Uh, no, none that we could find," Garcia replied, shaking her head softly.

"Who reported her missing?" Reid asked, still staring at the girl's picture. He could feel his stomach begin to turn over, making him shift positions in his seat. _What was so familiar about her?_

"Her sponsor," JJ responded, "from NA."

Reid's eyes darted up and he felt his stomach drop as though he had been taken to the edge of a 90-degree angle and pushed over it without warning. No wonder the look in her eyes was so familiar_—_it was the same look he had been staring down every day in the mirror. He felt the sweat starting around his hairline again. He glanced nervously_—__was anyone noticing? _He could feel eyes on his right. Hotch. He swallowed hard and wiped his hairline again.

"NA? So she's an addict, too? Damn..." Morgan shook his head.

"Recovering," JJ corrected Morgan. "She did a year in rehab before her father died_—"_

"Probably because she knew the state wouldn't give her custody of her brother otherwise," the unit chief finished JJ's sentence, unblinking.

_Keep your mind on the case_. "W-w-what did she do?" Reid asked, shaking his head a little. He squinted up at JJ, trying to keep his cool.

"What?"

"The, uh, the only c-connecting factor we have at this point is that all the women have some sort of fitness-related job. If she is a victim and not the unsub, w-what, uh, what does she do?"

JJ skimmed the file before speaking, "She has been...working as a capoeira instructor at a local MMA gym."

"Reid, did you and Gideon find a geographical center point?" Hotch asked as he began to thumb through the files.

"Uh, no, not exactly. All the locations are within four to six hours of each other, but as far as a central geographical location, there are too many possibilities..." Reid trailed off, embarrassed that he didn't have more to contribute. He and Gideon had gone over at least half a dozen possibilities, but the area was too large to say for sure, and Reid knew the worst thing to do at this point would be wrongly identify a location and waste time looking into a dead end.

Hotch closed the case file, signaling all the agents to bring their attention to him. "This is too much ground to cover with all eight of us, so we're going to split up. Morgan, I want you to go to South Carolina, talk to the families and gather as much information as you can. Gideon, you and Prentiss can head to Tennessee. I'll go to North Carolina, JJ, I want you in Bristol."

The team members nodded and stood, grabbing their go bags. Reid looked around, confused.

"W-what, uh, what about me, Hotch?"

Hotch's eyes darted to the young doctor, almost knocking the breath out of him. "I want you to stay here, help Garcia compile the information we get and try to find a central location where the unsub could be keeping these women."

Shock and anger overwhelmed Reid. "You_—_you don't want me out in the field?"

The entire team stopped in their tracks. Morgan and Prentiss exchanged nervous, confused glances while Garcia kept her eyes down. _Did everyone know?_ Reid looked over to Gideon, his heart catching in his throat. He tried to find some hint of thought or feeling from his hero's squinted eyes and pursed lips, but as always, Gideon remained inscrutable, unreadable. His attention fell back on the unit chief.

Hotch's stone cold face remained emotionless. "Right now, I can best use your talents here."

And with that, Hotch gathered his things and walked out, the rest of the team following behind silently.


	7. Tricked

**"I was once in a battle trying to fight my way out when I realized it's better to sneak out." - Jarod Kintz**

* * *

"Flamma! What is wrong with you?" A voiced hissed, stirring Violet from her unconsciousness. She had fallen asleep in the corner of her cell after vomiting violently in her bedpan when the first fight began. She struggled to open her heavy eyelids; they fluttered as her blurry vision began to focus.

"Hey!" The voice was angrier now, and her captor rattled a stick between the bars of her cell. The noise rang through her ears, echoing in her head, and the shock shot her eyes wide open. "What's wrong with you?!"

Violet shook her head, getting to her knees, "Nothing."

"Are you sick? I can't...you can't be...sick...that would_—_" The hooded figure was getting frustrated, his gloved hands balling into fists.

"I'm not sick," Violet interrupted, wanting to avoid any possible consequence. She stood, trying her best to masque her shaking legs. "I'm just...scared."

"Well..." the hooded figure let out a deep breath, shaking his head, "don't be. Keep it together. Or else you will have a reason to be scared."

The captor hopped off the platform Violet's cell was raised on and landed in the sand before making his way back to the ladder. Violet approached the front of the cell to look out at the battlefield. The once-clean sand was now sprayed with blood, almost like red tie-dye. She looked around to see who had taken the beating, and was unsurprised to find the bald girl crumpled in a heap on the floor of her cell, apparently knocked out.

She turned to Johanna and gestured questioningly toward the bald girl. Johanna gave a single, sober nod.

"Warriors! That was an eventful first fight! Let's see what our spectators thought..." The kidnapper was at his throne now. He pulled out a laptop and began typing.

"He's recording this?" the Hispanic woman two cells to Violet's left asked with a fearful glance toward Violet and Johanna.

Before answering, Violet paused, looking toward their kidnapper. He hadn't said anything about talking, but she didn't want to find out the hard way whether or not it would upset him. Apparently, though, he was too busy to notice that they were talking_—_or at least too busy to care.

"Yeah," she finally responded, looking back at the Hispanic woman. "There are cameras in our cells, too."

The woman turned around, noticing the camera for the first time. "Oh my god," she gasped, fighting a sob in her throat as she stumbled into the front corner of her cell. "Oh my god..."

Johanna lifted her head up, seizing the opportunity to speak. "What's your name?" She called out softly.

"Nashani."

"I'm Johanna."

Violet glanced over to Johanna, then back to Nashani, unsure of whether or not to contribute. Yes, they should absolutely stick together, Violet knew, but she also knew that not knowing the women would make it easier if any of them were killed in front of her. _Avoiding emotion is cowardice_, she reminded herself. She swallowed and turned back to Nashani, "Violet."

The chocolate skinned woman to Violet's immediate left looked between the two, speaking up. "I-I'm Diyah. Diyah Green."

Violet let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head and looking down as she extended her hands to the bars of her cell, leaning forward, "Wish I could say it's nice to meet you guys."

"Well, ladies," their captor interrupted, slamming his laptop closed, "the spectators weren't too pleased with that fight. Spiculus!" He called, pointing to the unconscious girl. "Put up a better fight next time. Attilius!" He turned his attention to the pit.

Violet hadn't even noticed the red headed girl in the far corner of the pit. She looked up when the captor called her Attilius, tears running down her cheeks.

"Please...please don't make me do this," She wept helplessly, her head falling back down between her legs. "Please don't make me do this again..."

"Let's find out who's next!" The man rubbed his hands together excitedly. "Gotta be a good fight, let's hope for a good fight..." He reached into a velvet pouch, pulling out a large, white chip. "Priscus!" He called excitedly, cackling. "Oh yes, oh yes, this is the fight we've been waiting for..." He grabbed a large metal controller that was rigged to the cables suspending their cells and held down a button. Violet looked around, waiting to see whose cell opened.

The Chinese woman stepped out and jumped down into the pit.

"Damn..." Johanna muttered, shaking her head. "White girl don't stand a chance..."

"I-I wouldn't be so sure," Diyah contributed to the conversation, walking over to the right side of her cell to be as close to Violet's as possible. "I heard the red head say she was a personal trainer."

The Chinese woman cracked her knuckles and rolled her head back and forth. "I'm sorry," she announced to her opponent, shaking her arms and jumping up and down to warm herself up, "but this is going to hurt. I'm a professional kick boxer."

Nashani, Violet, Johanna, and Diyah all exchanged glances, taking a deep breath. Violet's hand found her face and she rubbed her eyes, her fury and exhaustion catching up with her.

"Who the fuck pins that tiny girl against a professional kick boxer?" She spat, gritting her teeth. "This is fucking bullshit."

"Why does he call us these names?" Nashani asked. She looked at the three women for an answer.

Violet knew, but didn't speak up. If she spoke it out loud, let the other girls know, it would give their captor and the situation he had put them in too much power.

But Johanna spoke up, although she refused to look at the women. She kept her focus on the Chinese girl and the red head, gripping the bars of her cell as she darkly responded, "They're the names of famous Roman gladiators. _We're _his gladiators."

Violet felt the other two women resist the urge to sob. The air around them became damp, menacing, hopeless. Diyah sank to into a pile on the floor of her cell but remained silent, resting her forehead on her knees.

The Chinese woman and the red head were on their feet, moving around each other. Each took empty lunges at one another, but both seemed to be formidable opponents.

"Yes! Nice footwork!" Their captor called out, punching the air victoriously and giggling.

"We have to figure out a way out of here," Johanna said softly, intending for only Violet to hear her.

Nashani heard and chimed in anyway, "I...I might be able to beat him. I'm a spin instructor. I may not look like much but I'm pretty strong."

Violet raised her eyebrows, "Not look like much? You look like you could choke me out with your thighs. I very much don't doubt you could beat anyone." Nashani smiled and looked away. _Was now a time for manners?_ Violet asked herself as she reconsidered her comment. She didn't want to sound rude, even if she was being held captive_—_actually, _especially _if she was being held captive. "I'm not calling you fat," she clarified, "I'm saying you've got really strong legs."

"I know," Nashani assured her, smiling again. "Thanks."

Violet shrugged, raising her eyebrow, "I don't want to be a dick on my last day or so on earth."

That caught all the women's attentions. They snapped their head toward her and Violet found herself raising her hands defensively. "Not that I think we're going to die...uhh...yeah," she gave up trying to take back her statement, realizing the futility. They probably _were_ about to die. No point in hiding it.

But still, something with her fought violently against the idea, rattling inside of her ribs like a coin inside of a shaken jar. _I will not die here. I will not die on his terms._

"I-I-I..." Diyah had to take a deep breath to stabilize her speech. She tried again, this time nodding as she spoke as though to help solidify her words, "I'm a fitness instructor, too. Ballet fitness fusion. I...uh...I might be able to..." Violet saw the tears fill the rims of the young woman's eyes again, threatening to slide over and run down her face. Diyah shook away the tears, looking up and rubbing her face. "I don't know," she finished finally, defeat marking her voice.

"I'm a yoga instructor," Johanna mumbled, tilting her head to the side. She placed her hands on her hips, turning back to Violet. She lowered her voice. "Do you think that's why he nabbed us all? Because we're all work out instructors?"

And just like that, the gears in Violet's head started turning with such fury and force that she almost couldn't hold on to all of her thoughts. Every one of these women was likely some sort of fitness expert...and if the end result was a match with their captor, he'd have been watching them fight match after match...he'd know all their moves...

"Violet?" Violet's head snapped toward Nashani so fast that she felt her neck pop. "Do you have some sort of fitness related job?"

If she wanted to get out alive, get them _all_ out alive, she had to have a strategy. And sometimes the best strategy was a rightly timed lie.

"Yeah," she nodded, turning her attention back to the fight. The Chinese girl pulled her fist back and landed it in the red head's face, knocking her out immediately. Her body hit the sand as Violet spoke up, "I'm a professional ballerina."

"The spectators are thrilled!" The man shouted as he clapped fervently, his attention turned toward his reopened laptop. "Priscus, please escort Attilius back to her cage!"

The Chinese girl hoisted the red head in her arms and tossed her into her cell. Her body hit the ground with a hard smack, but the Chinese girl was unfazed. She jumped back into the arena, ready to fight the next round, as the red head's cell door closed.

"Let's see who's next, who's next..." His hand plunged into the sack again, ripping a white chip out.

Violet swore she could feel the smirk in his voice again. "Flamma," he almost breathed out, extending his arm dramatically, "it's your turn."

The door to Violet's cage swung open, welcoming her to the gladiator pit.

* * *

**A/N: A special thanks to my two loyal reviewers, Yuuki and Castiel. Please take some time to let me know what you think in a review. Thanks for reading, everyone.**


	8. Clued

**"Guilt is a weight that will crush you whether you deserve it or not." - Maureen Johnson**

* * *

Anger was not an emotion Reid was used to feeling.

Sometimes that meant his anger boiled over. The boy genius could handle memorizing entire bodies of fiction or putting together a good office prank, but the unfamiliar swell of blood in his cheeks and his rapidly increasing heart rate was so foreign, so unfamiliar that all he could do was clench and unclench his fists as he paced in Garcia's office. His chest rose and fell with his quick, short breaths, and for a moment his lungs were so hot, he was sure he was breathing fire.

"This is...this is absurd..." he muttered, walking side to side in Garcia's small office. He looked at Garcia for support. "I mean, don't you think? He had no reason not to let me go with the others and_—_"

"Okay, boy wonder! Right now you're turned up to 11? I need you to take it down to a one if you're going to be in here. Or at least three," Garcia paused her typing but didn't turn her attention to Reid, hoping that the pause for silence in what was usually the infinite click of her keys would be enough to communicate to the doctor just how serious she was.

It wasn't.

"It was a bad call. It was a bad call and he didn't have any justification for it..."

Did they know? How could they have found out? Sure, Reid hadn't exactly been _normal, _but that was to be expected, right? After all, he had been kidnapped and tortured. He was playing psychological games with a mentally unstable man while tied to a chair in the middle of the woods. It would be ridiculous for Hotch and Gideon to expect anyone to be normal after that.

And Reid was never normal to begin with, anyway.

Spencer's thoughts were racing so loudly in his head that he didn't notice Garcia gasp. "Reid..."

The young doctor began to rub his forehead. The thoughts, his racing heart-it was making him light headed. He had never craved Dilaudid more in his life. The liquid euphoria made his scope of the world so much smaller, so much easier to handle. Being introduced to it was like reaching another level of enlightenment-simultaneously awe-inspiring because he knew that he was capable of feeling that _good_, and torturous because he would _always_ know that he was capable of feeling that good.

"Do you know anything about it, Garcia?" He wasn't used to the anxiousness accompanied with doing something wrong and trying to hide it from people. "H-have, uh...have they said anything to you? Or anyone...else...?"

"Reid." Garcia's shaking, staccato voice beckoned him to stop. The tech goddess was staring intently at her screens, her body entirely unmoving. For a moment, Reid thought she had even stopped breathing. "You need to see this."

Those five words made his stomach sink instantly. He cleared his throat and walked over to the computers, leaning over Garcia's shoulder.

On the screen, a crude video feed was displayed. Reid could make out what appeared to be cages, all neatly aligned in a circular fashion around a ten-by-ten pit. Two women stood in the pit, facing each other.

"What is this?" He asked as he squinted, tilting his head. He could make out the shapes of women, but no distinguishing features.

"There are ten separate video feeds, Reid. Ten."

"What?"

Garcia closed out of the feed, revealing a website with ten separate video feeds arranged neatly in two rows of five. Eight of the feeds were inside the cages that Spencer had originally noticed, and the other was a close up of the pit.

"Garcia, how did you find this?"

Penelope swallowed nervously and Reid could feel her stress rapidly increase. That was one way Reid always knew he would differ from his partners-clues, no matter how gruesome, always gave him a sense of calm, of reason, as though he finally had a puzzle piece he had been missing for hours.

Garcia's breathing quickened, "I, uh...I have a group of friends, we're kind of like, like, uh, online Batmen...we take down gruesome websites...Westboro Baptist, abusive Twitter accounts, child pornography, that kind of stuff. A guy I know, he just sent me this and said it was impenetrable...thought maybe I could do it..."

"Don't take this down, Garcia," Reid mumbled as his eyes moved from video feed to video feed, running the pictures of the victims against the women whose faces he could make out in their cages.

"W-what?"

"Don't take this site down. These are our victims. And that..." Reid squinted, pointing to one of the women in the close up feed, "is Violet Knox."

Something in Spencer's stomach dropped as realized just how hard this case was going to be.

* * *

A/N: Sorry about the long gap in updates. I moved across the country and it took some time. I'm back for good now. Please take some time and review. Enjoy reading.


	9. Trained

**"Sometimes, by losing a battle, you find a new way to win the war." - Donald Trump**

* * *

Violet wasn't used to losing.

After her mom, Cecelia, died, she poured her soul into ballet. She thought that dancing in memory of her mother would make her a better dancer_—_and it did_—_for a few months. But once Violet's 12th birthday came up that March, it became almost impossible for her to dance. Every time she held onto the barre, she could hear her mother in her ear, "demi plié, arm to fifth, open to second, elevé..." She burned her pointe shoes in a trashcan a week after her birthday.

She wasn't heartbroken about the change, but her stomach did ache when she thought about her mother watching over her from above. Would she understand? Would she be proud that Violet did what was right for her? Or would she be disappointed that Violet gave up so easily? Was she even really watching from anywhere, or was she just cold in the ground? Was God real? And if He was, where was He when Violet needed him?

Her grandmother was the one that broke the news that her dad, Gabriel, was returning from Brazil to raise Violet and her brother. Violet knew little about her father; her mother told her once of how they met, but she was very young at the time and struggled as a 12 year old to remember the story. He was some sort of fighter, Violet remembered, and he had drunkenly stumbled into one of Cecelia's performances in Rio de Janeiro and forced his way backstage to propose to her. They got married a week later in Brazil and had Violet less than a year later. _Someone really should have told them that a marriage built on drunken proposal had little staying power._

Violet remembered that her father was a drunk. Her mom always blamed it on his inability to find work in America, but as Violet got older, she realized it was really because he couldn't fight. When he was around, Gabriel always told Violet stories about how he was a well-known and respected street fighter back in Brazil, and how he free he felt when he was fighting. As she got older, Violet realized her father sacrificed his identity to raise his children in America. Anyone would miss the recognition, the adoration, the feeling of _accomplishing_ something. No wonder he disappeared right after her little brother, Hugo, was born.

But then, the car accident happened. Cecelia's injuries were so bad that she died alone in her hospital room. The thought of her beautiful mother fading away alone in a room full of cold metal and white sheets made Violet's chest collapse, and although Violet knew it was wrong, she had always been thankful for the accidental morphine overdose the nurses gave her. Yes, it eventually came back to haunt her, but if she hadn't been so numb that day, she was sure she would have given up and succumbed to her injuries, following her mother to the grave.

Gabriel reluctantly returned to Virginia to raise his children, but once he moved into the house, the suffocating discomfort set in. Hugo and Violet considered him a stranger, especially since Gabriel was often missing from the house at night, leaving thirteen year old Violet alone to care for her little brother. This man was sleeping in her mom's room. This man was roughly pouring cereal into bowls and leaning against a counter, staring at Violet and Hugo as they ate. This man felt foreign in the house; the only time things felt relatively normal was when he was gone.

But one night, a combination of fearing the worst and being curious consumed Violet's body. She felt possessed as she followed her father that night, like a zombie gunning down its prey, determined to find some answers.

She crept along the side of a dark, dingy gym and crouched next to a window through which she peered just in time to see her father get kicked so hard in the face that one of his teeth flew out. But he kept fighting.

She gasped in shock, immobile, _memorized_ by her father. His strength seemed endless, his determination overflowing, and his focus unmatchable. The kick to his head was hard and knocked him to the ground, but he placed his palms on the floor on either side of his head and used them to push up, landing his foot directly in his opponent's stomach. The other man fell to the ground and hit his head, knocking out. The other men in the room surrounded Gabriel, cheering, and two men in the corner begrudgingly counted money. _This is how he's paying for everything_, Violet realized. _This is how he is affording to raise us._

Violet followed him night after night for months, leaving her sleeping brother alone in the empty house. One night she got there early, having left immediately after her dad, and crouched by the same window and watched as he warmed up. His warm up was an art she never understood, even as an adult. She had watched her mother move but never understood the flow of her body; she admired it, respected it, but it was so rigid, so thought-out, so intentional. Watching her dad move_—_this time without a fighting partner_—_was poetry in motion. His body flowed without thought. It moved on its own. It flew. It glided. It was inhuman, unplanned, unintentional, and yet, powerful, bold, graceful, light. His feet glided swiftly over his head, underneath his arms, his back arching and folding as his hips twisted and turned. Totally out of his head, totally under bodily control. Muscles working in accordance with bones and blood and ligaments. This was the body released from the control of the mind. This was stimulus and response.

And although she was only thirteen, Violet understood immediately how her mother fell in love with her father, despite all his flaws. He moved like a god, like the wind that travels around the earth.

Her father disappeared into a hallway, she assumed to prepare for the fight. She moved to the next window, the one that peered into the fighting room, and felt her heart rate kick up. _This is going to be an awesome fight, _she thought, rubbing her hands together.

But suddenly, a hand cupped underneath her arm and jerked her up so hard and so fast that they felt lightheaded. A small scream escaped her throat, and another hand covered her mouth. Gabriel pulled her away from the alleyway, keeping his head down and moving swiftly.

"Violet, what are you doing here!?" He demanded, refusing to let go of her arm.

She whimpered underneath him, "I wanted to see where you were going..."

"Where is Hugo!?" Did he care about them after all? His eyes seemed to be on fire, his voice low and threatening.

"He's sleeping...at the house..."

"You left your brother alone in the house!?"

Heat bubbled up from Violet's stomach and reminded herself not to be afraid of this man. "No different from what you've been doing," she stated boldly, looking him in the eye.

His posture softened and he stepped back from her, although his voice remained stern, "Don't talk to me that way, Violet."

"I want to do this." The words tumbled out of her mouth uncontrollably.

"What? Sneak around?"

"No," Violet had to resist the urge to stomp her foot like a child. "I want to fight."

"Capoeira?" Gabriel paused. Excitement flashed through his eyes, followed by solemnity. He shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous."

"No, Gabriel..." Violet took his hand, deliberate in her speech. "_Dad_. I want to do this. I want to learn capoeira. I want to fight."

And that was when he started training her.

They worked night after night in the basement, sweating, panting, bleeding. Violet expected him to start off easy on her, but he refused. "You'll never learn how to win if you never lose," he would tell her as he picked her up off the ground.

But Violet hated losing. She hated the way her dad laughed knowingly at her, the way that sometimes it seemed like he didn't even have to try while fighting her. It made her skin crawl and her muscles in her neck twitch. The only way to stop losing was to start winning. And the only way to start winning was to get good.

So Violet got _damn_ good.

By sixteen, she could keep up with her father. She begged him to let her enter the fight club at the gym, but he told her not until she beat him in every fight for three months in a row. This inspired her to spend more time training on her own, and she decided that by her seventeen birthday, she would be fighting in the gym.

When March rolled around, she had barely managed to maintain her success over her father, but she had succeeded nonetheless. A man of his word, he relented and brought her to the gym to fight for money. The men eyed her like a slab of meat, licking their lips and throwing their heads back in laughter. Violet unzipped her gray track jacket, standing barefoot in a black sports bra and loose black sweatpants, and stepped into the center of the room.

Her opponent, a bald white man with a beard, several neck tattoos, and abs that could have been confused for mountains, shook his head. "Gabe, what the hell is this? I can't beat up your daught_—_"

Before he could finish the word, Violet had already rotated in a cartwheel on the palms of her hands and connected the heel of her foot with the man's temple. He tumbled sideways and tried to find his footing, but it was too late. Violet had already rotated her hips again, and she swung her legs, kicking his feet out from underneath him and knocking him on his back. Within moments he recovered and was up and swinging at her, but she managed to avoid his punches as she quickly flipped and turned. For a moment, she giggled. _Too easy_.

And that's when her opponent punched her straight in the eye. The pain was unlike anything she had felt before and she knew immediately that there was extensive damage beyond a black eye. She fell to the ground, her head smacking against the hard concrete, and the man relentlessly kicked her in the ribs. For a moment she looked up at her father and reached out for help. He shook his head and stepped forward to intervene, disappointed, embarrassed, ashamed.

_No, _something inside of her shouted. _You will not lose to this stupid fuck. Get off the goddamn ground and don't ask for your daddy's help. Fight. Win. _And with that, she sprung up. Her right ribs were untouched and therefore she could still kick with her right leg.

"Got a little more fight in you than I expected, sweetheart," the man sneered, taking a step back.

"I'm sorry," Violet looked at him through her one good eye, wiping blood from her nose and mouth.

"It's okay. Everyone loses, darling," the man extended his hand to shake, giving her a pathetic frown.

"No," Violet said as she grounded her stance. She spat blood out at his feet and gritted her teeth. "I'm sorry for breaking your nose."

"You didn't_—"_

And with that, she came at him like a tornado, spinning so fast in rotation that he didn't have time to react. "A quadruple pirouette," Violet could hear her mother whispering, "Spot. Don't look at the ground or that's where you'll end up. Don't push off with more power than you need-your body will fill in the rest." She kicked her opponent in the head four times, and with each time the man's head turned more and more to the side until his entire body spun around and he collapsed on the floor. She had won.

As she stood above his unconscious body, her ribs bruised, eye socket broken, blood running down her face, she knew that, for the first time, she was tasting victory. And that night, she promised to never learn the taste of defeat.

Violet walked home with $2,000 that night because everyone had bet against her. Everyone except for her father.

From that night on, Violet never lost a fight. She was too quick, her kicks were too precise, but most importantly, she had too much pride. It wasn't until her father died when she was 22 that she started losing. Addiction had done a lot of horrible things to Violet's life, but by far the worst was that it robbed her of her ability to fight. She hadn't so much as done a handstand in two years and yet here she was, back in a fighting ring, and this time she was betting her _life. _

"Yue," the Chinese woman extended her hand to Violet.

It was fighting etiquette to introduce yourself to your opponent, so Violet extended her hand as well, "Violet."

"I'm really sorry about this," Yue said, rotating her arms and warming up.

"Oh?" It took every ounce of self-control not to laugh at Yue's veiled threat. After all, Violet had used to the old "I'm sorry" bit herself, but not since she was seventeen. _Act surprised_, she counseled herself, _or this plan will never work. __And if this plan doesn't work, none of us will get out alive_.

"Yeah," Yue shrugged and rolled her neck, "I'm a kick boxer. Unless you fight, too. In which case, this should be fun."

Violet pulled her mouth into a straight line and shook her head simply, "I'm a dancer."

"Oh," sadness flashed across Yue's face, followed by a shrug. "Well, I'll try not to injure you too much, okay?"

"Thanks," Violet nodded, looking away to hide her annoyance. "I appreciate that."

"Ladies!" Their captor called from above. His voice rang through the room like church bells. "Let the fight begin!"

And for the first time in her life, Violet stood still and lost a fight. Voluntarily.

And it _sucked_.

* * *

A/N: I'm really sorry for the long hiatus, but I hope this very long chapter will make up for it. Now that I'm done moving and settled in, I'm ready to get back to work on this. Please take time and drop a review if you can. Thanks for reading!


End file.
